The Element Of
by KehRawwr
Summary: Give the water a chance to settle before you throw another stone; let the wind die down a little before you relight the fire. Though it may feel too still in the aftermath, things will soon rekindle. Post Reichenbach.  Disclaimer - I don't own Sherlock.
1. Jim: A Lone Flame

_Post Reichenbach angst - hey, might as well jump on the bandwagon._

_It's going to be told from a variety of different POVs, probably mainly Sherlock's, John's, Moriarty's and Mycroft's._

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

A small motel in Nevada, some ten minutes from the centre of Reno; it's hardly his style – he is after all, very British and, being very British, he found standing on neon clad street corners and observing the throng of fools who seemed eager to lose their money at the nearest casino very grating indeed. He'd never been a particularly sentimental person, nor had he liked repetition, but the past few weeks he'd spent 'lying low' in places that were so very annoying had left him pining for London's monotonous hues and vaguely polite crowds. London _was_ a big place, people went missing there often enough, and most managed to disappear entirely- if that was what they wished. It was, however, _not_ big enough for him to hide in - for the time being- and so he'd found himself living under the Star-Spangled Banner.

It had been roughly 347 hours since the game he had been playing with one of the most interesting men in Britain had ended, somewhat abruptly. Reminiscing the brief encounter on the rooftop, he realised how truly anticlimactic it had been; death was such a cliché way to end a war and, if the depraved truth be told, he had expected something infinitely more innovative.

Yes, something ingenious and resourceful, something that would have made him a legend.

The outcome, however, had been far from what he had anticipated. It was an insult to the carefully planned game. Oh, of course it had made front page news in London – but where was the wide-spread hype? Where was the panic? Where was the infamy that would preserve him forever? Perhaps he had made the game too personal, maybe he should have allowed it to end with an audible bang...

He found himself staring absorbedly at the stuttering glow of his cigarette and didn't move until his sight was peppered with dancing amber lights. Even this hateful place was almost beautiful when it was masked by these fiery hues. He closed his eyes, allowing the blaze to sweep behind his darkened lids, for just long enough to almost hear the familiar roar of flame in his ear.

Then something jostled him off balance and forced him to regain his poise with one undignified stomp of his foot. Obnoxious light flooded in and extinguished his fire as he glared maliciously up at the offending party. Honey coloured eyes gawked down at him from several inches above – God he hated tall women – and took in every detail of his person. Or at least, she noticed everything about him that was blatantly obvious and ignored the subtleties.

Oh, beautiful subtleties, just like the one that had retrieved an envelope – no doubt full of dollar bills – from the women's handbag and replaced it under his coat, tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Why couldn't people just shut up and notice the subtleties?

Despite the obvious interlude in his enjoyment of life, being the 'entrepreneur' that he is, he had at least managed to make the excursion somewhat beneficial to his pocket. A few willing participants and some well calculated bets proved more than sufficient enough to help him back into the designer suits he belonged in. Playing a character and dressing the part had been amusing enough when it had been essential to play the game, but blending himself in with the rest of the insignificant human-race for longer than necessary was mentally painful.

He needed to stand out. He was born to stand out. He liked to think of himself as a lone flame, something that attracted the darkness but still managed to remain untouched by it. Being untouchable was so boring. Knowing, even as he laced his plans with the most dangerous risks, that he never had been and never would be caught only served to make it all seem rather pointless.

But little flames, regardless of how fierce they burn, are still vulnerable to the other elements. Oh how he had longed for that breath of air that had threatened to douse his flame. It had been exciting, fighting to protect his heat from that enthralling gust – but, in a rare burst of self-preservation, he had acted too soon and opted to shut the window.

He was such a fool.

Growing tired of his cigarette, he flicked it impatiently to the ground, not bothering to put it out, and returned to his one-bed-and-a-coffee-machine room, leaving the honey-eyed women alone with her apologies. Neither of the room's features had been used in the two days that he had rented them out, the bed was crumpled from being sat on, but the sheets were still tucked in and the pillows untouched. The coffee machine did little other than offend him with its presence, he used to like coffee- black, plenty of sugar- but since he'd 'had a cuppa' with a certain someone, he desired only tea.

But there was no tea at this motel so coffee and alcohol had had to suffice , and unless he wanted to eat nothing but sugared 'do(ugh)nuts' - which he most certainly did not- then he had to go hungry as well. His concern for his own wellbeing had been quite nonexistent in the last couple of weeks, and it almost surprised him. He supposed he was just trying to make up for the loss of his enemy by becoming more like him, more reckless - if that were possible, to a point where he almost had a split personality.

He sighed petulantly as his fingers stroked the buttons on his Smartphone, his gaze not leaving the screen until the web-page had loaded. He flicked through the most recent posts, all of which he had read several times before. Still nothing new.

And every day that there was nothing new added to the growing weight of reality that had settled itself somewhere in his chest, taken over the cavity that had once been completely numb and was now warring with his mind.

He suddenly snapped into action, his fingers flying expertly over the QWERTY keyboard, leaving a multitude of messages in the vague hope that establishing contact with the person he was missing would somehow make reality shift back to a more interesting time.

And so he left the following messages on ' The Science of Deduction':

_"Hello sexy, it would appear we both acted a smidgen too hastily. Come back and play- game's still on." - Anonymous_

_"Time's ticking, sexy. You're late." - Anonymous_

_"Oh, don't be like this my dear. Don't ignore me." - Anonymous_

_"You didn't really think that I'd end it all with you getting all the fame and glory for my brilliance, did you? Tut tut, it would appear you've made an incorrect deduction." - Anonymous_

He had made sure to leave an adequate space of time for someone to respond to him between each post, but still replies were low on the ground. He felt his heart pounding chest, and a new wave of nausea accompanied each beat. He closed his eyes again, though only briefly this time, and attempted to label the emotion gripping him.

He couldn't.

This brought a new feeling, a familiar one that immediately trounced its indistinguishable former, and the poor coffee machine bore the brunt of it.

Shortly after this, the man left his room and headed away from Nevada, still not entirely sure where he was going, or when he had become so redundant. He was now a wanderer, which played awful tricks on his need to always have a plan.

He pocketed the money ($600) and put his phone into the woman's envelope, which he threw from the car window as soon as Reno had left his rear-view mirror. He was not keen on the idea of his posts possibly being traced by 'The British Government'. No, for now he would continue to lie low and play dead and wait, because he knew that his enemy was still alive.

The consulting criminal could feel Sherlock's presence in the world like the needling of shrapnel in a wound and this time, Jim was going to make sure he enjoyed cleaning out the cut.

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><p><em>Authors Note:<em>

_Hi all,_

_I hope you are enjoying this so far, if at all anyone is reading it!_  
><em>I find that I don't edit my chapters nearly half as much as I should and probably end up keeping far too much non-related description in the text– so if I start to digress too much from the story please feel free to shout "Oi! Focus on the story Missy, I'm waiting here!" and thump your fists on your desk in some enactment of impatience. (That's hoping some of you will care enough about my writing to be impatient... ^.^)<em>

_Anyway, that will be all for now. I do hope you have enjoyed this chapter, and believe me to be, my dear fellows,_

_Very sincerely yours._

_KehRawwr ;)_


	2. Mycroft: Reverie

**Chapter Two**

A weary sigh escaped his lungs and coloured the air in front of him white for a brief moment. It was an uncommonly bitter April morning in London, and the engine wasn't yet warm enough for the cars' climate control to be anything other than a steady stream of cool air. It was mornings like this, spent patiently in the back of sleek black cars, that told Mycroft that the day would be a long one.

Not that most days weren't longer than the norm for one Mycroft Holmes – holding a position such as his in the British Government did mean that he was required to forfeit a great deal of his own time just to ensure things didn't fall apart. He didn't mind though, he was a Holmes and if there was anything a Holmes could do well, it was dedication.

The London traffic crawled on whilst Mycroft tapped irritably on the handle of his umbrella. He'd always been good at switching off, detaching himself from the world and entering a state of calm contemplation, but he was finding it harder and harder to make up the distance with each day. Since Sherlock jumped, Mycroft had felt more and more pressured by the knowledge that he'd failed his brother. It was just another thing for the elder Holmes to feel quietly guilty about.

For the first time in many years, Mycroft Holmes found himself considering his relationship with his brother. It was something he often avoided thinking about, and in all truthfulness he'd always thought himself a man with too little time to contemplate such things, but that was hardly true. He was, in terms of time to reflect, a very lucky man. It was a Holmes trait to be able to sift through facts in order to view the truest perspective on the world; however Sherlock had been the one blessed with speed. He himself needed far more time to see what Sherlock could see and, thankfully, his style of life could afford him this time. Sure, he had to work almost constantly, but he didn't have to use his brain for all of his work – in fact, he used it surprisingly rarely. After all, you didn't _have_to be a genius like he was to work in the government.

He and Sherlock had grown up separately which had, of course, resulted in their aloof relationship. When Sherlock was born, Mycroft was already away at a private boarding school five hours from home and so a visit to his newborn brother had been quite impossible. Being eleven at the time of Sherlock's birth, Mycroft hardly felt the urge to coo over his younger brother, and had instead opted to be cool and reserved, a conduct he retained towards his brother for many years.

They saw each other twice a year, Christmas and during the summer holidays. The age gap meant they hardly spent such time together, as Sherlock was too young to entertain his older brother, and Mycroft thought himself too old to play games with small children. By the time Sherlock was five both brothers had come to regard each other more as distant relations than siblings.

Mycroft was happy with this being their relationship, until Sherlock was in his teens and it became increasingly obvious that he wasn't 'normal'. Granted, neither of the Holmes siblings had been normal, both being far too bright for their age, but Sherlock, ahead as he was in terms of intelligence, was so obviously lacking in any social skills.

Sherlock was fifteen, an age where he should be deemed old enough to converse with adults, when he first spoke to Mycroft. The older brother had always assumed Sherlock's reluctance to speak to him stemmed from their extrication, but the longer the silence continued the more that belief became a hope.

It was three days before Christmas and Mycroft had been home for a few hours, without seeing any trace of his younger brother. He'd asked after him, of course – as was expected of him – and his Mother had assured him that Sherlock was around somewhere. He was halfway through tea with his Mother before she apologetically left him to go and take an important phone call. For Violet Holmes, every phone call was an important one, a fact that Mycroft was long since used to.

It was then that Sherlock burst in, rather energetically for a teenager, and called:

"Mummy!.. Mummy!"

He was as slender as Mycroft remembered – but he was nowhere near as skinny as he'd soon become. His hair, back then was longer and wilder and his skin held a youthful flush. When his eyes caught onto Mycroft, sitting languidly in an armchair by the fire, and realised that his Mother wasn't in the room, he visibly shrank back into himself – the flush disappearing and his eyes lowering.

What happened next, Mycroft would forever remember as the moment he lost any hope of maintaining a healthy relationship with his brother.

"Oh, sorry Sherly. _Mummy_isn't in here right now." Mycroft mocked his younger brother, "Don't you think your choice of noun is slightly inappropriate?"

He could see the cogs turning in his brother's brilliant mind as he considered Mycroft's jibe, his face remaining composed. So composed, Mycroft almost missed the brief look of confusion that crossed Sherlock's face.

"Well... She_ is_my Mummy." Sherlock replied, in a voice entirely too quiet for a teenage boy.

Mycroft got up from his chair and strolled casually towards Sherlock; somewhat unable to believe his younger-but-not-so-young brother didn't realise he was making fun of him.

"Oh, yes she is your _Mummy_. She's my _Mummy_ too... Everyone has their _Mummy_."

Sherlock frowned, trying to work out if that statement needed an answer.

"I- I know." Was all he could finally say.

"I haven't called her _Mummy_ in _years_though Sherlock. Not since I was six."

"Why not?" He asked, genuinely curious.

"Because I'm not a child."

"You're Mummy's child. Just I am..." Sherlock tailed off, unable to think of what to say next. He seemed quite genuinely distressed by the conversation, and used Mycroft's silence as an excuse to escape.

Mycroft enjoyed teasing his younger brother, as he did anyone he deemed to compete with him in terms of intelligence, but he wasn't a bully. He knew that, Sherlock being a genius and nearly an adult, should be able to determine that he was making fun of him. He hadn't meant for it to be scornful or to confusing, but Sherlock was taking the conversation so literally, it was almost like talking to a seven year old who was unable to decipher how the tone of someone's voice effects the meaning of their words.

Later that same night, after a silent dinner with 'Mummy' and Sherlock, and after Sherlock had excused himself, Mycroft had ventured his observations to Violet Holmes, who simply looked evenly back and informed him that Sherlock had been diagnosed with Aspergers three years ago by the family doctor, and that it was something they had both decided to keep quiet about.

Mycroft had argued that it would be best for people to know, lest they taunt Sherlock as he just had, and whilst 'Mummy' agreed, Sherlock had decided this for himself, and she would always comply with his wishes. Mycroft knew that his Mother loved him, but he also knew that she doted upon Sherlock. Mycroft had been fortunate enough to know the love of both parents, but after their Father had left shortly before Sherlock was born, Violet had always tried to make up for his absence for Sherlock's sake. All of his life, Sherlock had been 'Mummy's' special boy. She had shown a lot of interest in his experiments and his interests, and had thus become the one person Sherlock had a truly unique bond with.

Mycroft was pulled from his reverie as the car abruptly came to a halt outside a stately house in London's suburbs, and all too suddenly forced back into his current position, once which he would trade almost anything to not be in.

He made his way slowly up the neat, hedge lined driveway and signalled for his driver to leave. He would be here for quite some time. He tried not to look up at the ageing woman waiting for him on the doorstep; he tried not to think of her current obliviousness. He tried not to think about what he was about to tell the woman who loved Sherlock more than any Mother loved their son. Most of all, he tried not to think about why Sherlock had told him to do this.

His hand twiddled nervously on the keys on his phone, bringing up the last text Sherlock sent him just to make sure, in a last vain hope, that he hadn't misread the message:

_"Do not tell Mummy the truth. To her, I shall remain dead. – SH"_

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><p><em>Authors note:<em>

_Phew – glad this chapter is over! I really wanted to establish the sort of relationship I think the Holmes' boys should have for this story, as it'll play a fairly big part in the story._

_On one hand, this chapter flowed from my mind very coherently – I mean, the Holmes' childhood always seems to_

_beg to be written. On the other hand though – I am aware I'm going for quite a different teenage Sherlock to how he most often appears in fan fiction. Most of them that I've read chronicle Sherlock as a 'troubled' child with a 'troubled' childhood – you know, early drinking, bullied, drugs, abuse, family death etcetc. Instead, I want a very innocent Sherlock. I am going for a completely Aspergers, quiet-genius Sherlock. And believe me – it's quite hard to imagine an innocent Sherlock._

_(Also, though admittedly I do love a nice bit of Sherlock whump, I do find the over-dramatic versions on Sherlock's childhood a little bit too much. I mean, some of the stories I've read on Sherlock's history could make the writers of Eastenders jealous!)_

_Ultimately – as much as I love Mycroft – I am really aiming to exploit Mycroft's guilt (over Sherlock's childhood, their relationship and of course selling him out to Moriarty!) in order to keep this story going. If you want a little spoiler, Sherlock is really going to rely on Mycroft's feelings to get through this story... ^.^_

_Anyway, hopefully I'll get the next chapter up quicker than this one! Sorry about that._

_Over and out ;)_


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